I’ve always been fascinated with history. Something about all those places and people and forgotten stories entranced me from a very young age.
Just now, I was up in the lunchroom of the library that I work at, and I struck up a conversation with a local historian.
Last night there was a program here at the library about Roger’s Rangers, a group of soldiers from the French and Indian War who were the first white people to see the portion of the country where I now live.
Anyway, this local historian was telling me about the program and showed me a sword that his grandfather found in the woods around the turn of the century. His grandfather was just a boy, running around playing as boys do, when he tripped over something sticking out of the ground. He grabbed ahold of it and pulled it out. It was a very old sword, the top pitted from hundreds of cold and violent Northern winters.
The sword was found right along the retreat route of Roger’s Rangers.
It has been in this man’s family ever since. Fairly recently he began doing some research, to find out when and where it was originally from.
The dates for identical swords match up perfectly with the time that Roger’s Rangers would have been coming through.
Nothing is officially authenticated as of yet, but still…
There I stood, holding a sword that was probably owned by one of the first white people ever to set foot in this region.
I found myself shivering.
History has a funny way of putting things into perspective.